


cuckoo's nest

by hinotorihime



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Body Horror, Other, monsters respecting each other's pronouns, mostly because nikola is an obnoxious little shit, not as shippy as originally intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 11:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15290190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hinotorihime/pseuds/hinotorihime
Summary: A creature that used to be human has a conversation with a creature that never was.





	cuckoo's nest

The Hive wraps a threadbare coat around their shell where cool draughts are blowing through the holes, making them writhe in discomfort. This is the dark, earthy-smelling basement of some complex of flats, and it is, if not a place of power, a usually comfortable-enough home, easy to enter and leave but difficult to find, close to a pub that can serve as a food source, and, normally, not as draughty as this. Perhaps it’s the rain. The Hive disapproves of rain.

The door is letting rain in, now, because it’s open, and a figure is standing in it. Much taller by human standards than the Hive, with an artificial-looking shine at the edges of its silhouette.

“There you are!” says the figure cheerfully, and the Hive regards it coldly as it steps casually forward into the gloom of the basement. Worms swarm around the figure’s feet, trying to burrow into its skin, but its skin is hard and inorganic, and it doesn’t even seem to notice. By the time the being has reached the main body of the Hive, the worms have begun to retreat. It’s smiling, rather too wide, with plump red lips that seem to be in the wrong position on its face.

The Hive pulls themselves upright and sings, what are you? Why have you come here?

The being spins its red-and-purple coat off of its shoulders with a flourish. “Why, I’m the Ringmaster. The Lead Dancer.” Its voice is high, airy and grating. “My name is Nikola Orsinov. And I know you, of course. _You’re_ Jane Prentiss.”

The Hive sings, we have no name. We have no need for a name. We are the Hive.

Nikola Orsinov laughs; it’s even higher and more grating than its speech. Then it plops down on the floor in front of them, making no effort not to crush several worms underneath it. This does not concern the Hive overmuch; they are many and one at once, and the loss of a few of them is no more than a brief blinking and sudden readjustment-- they are used to this. Worms are fragile, and their strength is in numbers.

No, what irritates the Hive is the carelessness of Nikola Orsinov. Of its coming in, its settling down, _making itself comfortable_ \-- as if it owned the place; as if the Hive could not overwhelm and consume it as easily as a bird snapping up a worm. Only let this being give the Hive enough of a reason to rouse themselves. Something still holds them back: curiosity, maybe. Or perhaps they are simply tired, and have little wish to expend energy on punishing this trespasser as they normally would.

“My father was from Russia,” says Nikola Orsinov in its cheerful chirp. “ _His_ name was Grigoriy, and I killed him!”

The Hive sings, did you, now, as they settle warily back onto the floor. They sing it on a dry monotone.

“Oh yes! He made me, and he taught me all he knew, and then I murdered him. It was great fun. He screamed a lot.”

The Hive squirms and crawls around themselves. Patience has never been their strong suit, but Nikola Orsinov’s smooth face, forming human expressions with brows and lips stitched tightly to the plastic, requires-- surveillance.

“But you know, I rather liked the name he gave me, so I kept it. Just like I kept all the rest of him, in the end.” It smiles beatifically. “By all rights it ought to have been Orsinova once I decided I liked _она_ more, but it always confused people soooo much I simply couldn’t bear to change it! It’s not as fun here, though. British people simply don’t understand that sort of thing.”

She pouts.

“ _And_ I had to get a whole new tongue because I just couldn’t stand the accent, you know?”

The Hive wants to know why Nikola Orsinov is telling them all of this, and she spreads her arms teasingly wide, as if she’s announcing a circus act or a magic trick.

“My own amusement, of course! I should think it would be obvious! Or don’t _you_ ever have fun?”

The Hive sings, what use have we for your amusements? As much as we have for a name.

Nikola Orsinov puts her fists on her hips. “Goodness, but you’re boring. No wonder you’re holed up-- haha! do you get it? “holed up”?-- but no wonder you’re down here, covered in dirt and living like a hobo!”

The Hive writhes and sings disapprovingly, why are you **here** , Nikola Orsinov?

“Oh, it’s Nikola, please!” Nikola laughs, high and breathy. “And, well, Jane. May I call you Jane? ‘Hive’ is so _boring_ , and it simply doesn’t sound good.”

The Hive supposes that very well, Jane is a perfectly fine name. They have no use for it, but no objection either. They sing this, and Nikola nods.

“Well, Jane, I’m here because it amuses me! Your pale, squirmy little face.” Nikola leans forward, too close, and some of the Hive takes the opportunity to slide onto the cold plastic surface of her. Nikola does not seem to notice, or care; she is staring with an almost greedy look. “You know, you really do have a nice skin, where it’s not all over holes! A pity, really. I could have done wonders on this, once.” She leans back onto her heels again. “Ah, well. I have his eyes, you know. Well-- one of them, anyway! I think the other is from some woman in, hmm, it would have been Jugoslavia then, but I don’t _really_ remember. It’s this green one, see? _Lovely_ eyelashes.”

It takes the Hive a moment to realize that Nikola is speaking of her father again. There can be no reason for this save to lengthen the farce, and they are growing weary of it.

They sing, if you wished to speak to us only for your own amusement, we do not think you would have taken the time to track us down.

Nikola’s stitched-together face snaps into coldness with an efficient immediacy.

“Oh?” she says, in a voice no different from the one she has been using.

We do not make it easy for the unbrothered ones to find us. And you and your swarms of i-do-not-know-you seem.... fickle, sings the Hive. The worms curl off of Nikola’s hard flesh with a lovely squelch to which the being does not react.

“Oh, darling, we are _terrifyingly_ fickle.” Nikola bares her collection of teeth. “Not quite so much as, fuck what’s it in English, the twisting ones but who cares about them anyway. I came, Jane-- may I call you Jane?-- to offer you a place in my choir. Not the Choir, of course. As a sort of..... hmm. An opening act.” Her eyes glint. “The _first wave_ , is that what they call it?”

The Hive is silent.

“And also,” says Nikola, still with no change in her breathy, delighted tone, “to remind you how _stupid_ it is, to think you can hide from the Ones who Hide in Plain Sight.”

The Hive stirs itself. Jane turns hollowed eye sockets directly on Nikola and sings a beautiful, bone-aching dissonance.

We do not fear you, Nikola-Who-Is-Not. Why should we care for your petty squabbles? When the Eye is forced back into sleep and you have danced the world new and then grown tired of the novelty-- the Hive will still sing. The Hive will squirm. The Hive will love _._

Nikola laughs her breathy, tittering laugh.

“Do you know, Jane? May I call you Jane? I rather think that I like you. You’re _funny_.”

Jane tilts their head, gravity pulling some of them from the holes in the cheek of their shell. Perhaps, they hum.

Nikola smiles cruelly with her lopsided mouth and stands.

“I may visit again. Or I may not. I haven’t decided yet.”

Jane regards her quietly with their thousands of eyes.

Nikola shrugs her ringmaster’s jacket back on and pushes the door open with a soft plasticky clack.

“Don’t forget to use lotion!” she calls over her shoulder. Her peal of giggling follows her out into the street.


End file.
